


unknown algorithm

by snsk



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bond's files aren't very private, Companionable Snark, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Schmoop, Self-trust issues, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 15:51:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snsk/pseuds/snsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which Bond has traitorous feet, Tom Fords and self-trust issues, and Q has a (sinfully pretty) mouth on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	unknown algorithm

The world doesn’t know much about Bond, but like most fumbling, well-meaning biographers, it does manage to get some things right.

Bond loves:

women (M, Vesper, Monique Delacroix (or what he can remember of her))

cars (the Aston Martin is currently in the workshop of some of the best mechanics in the world as they scramble furiously to get it restored in any way possible)

drink (this does not need any footnote)

immaculately pressed suits (Brioni, Tom Ford)

and

scrambled eggs in the morning (pepper, mushrooms, tomato).

Q is –  an unknown part of the (world’s) equation (of Bond): the legend they’ll never whisper, the movie they’ll never make.

The story they’ll never know.

 

* * *

 

After M has given him his assignment, and he’s been adequately debriefed, Bond finds himself walking the familiar (restored, safe-again, shiny clean) hallways of MI6, and stopping in front of the Quartermaster’s headquarters.

He doesn’t know why he’s here.

(A different man from Bondwould psychoanalyse it as wanting to find a familiar variable in a new experiment of unknown ones, but Bond is not that kind of man.)

He sees Q, anyway. Or the back of him, hunched over something sleek and silver.

“Bond?”

“Q.” He leans against the glass, shutting it behind him.

Q’s looking at him with something akin to sadness, but he only says, for which Bond is profoundly grateful: “I trust you brought my equipment back safely?”

Bond raises an eyebrow, smirks, and, because he’s Bond and bad pick-up lines are one of the perks, “Oh, I brought the- _equipment_ back safely.”

Q shakes his head. “ _Really_ ,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“Yes, really. Would you like to check?”

 

* * *

 

This is India:

“I can’t pull up any images.”

“It’s a Sunday market in Calcutta, where do you expect these images from, darling?”

“I hate this. Shit.” Q sounds betrayed and frustrated, the way he always does when his beloved tech fails him.

“That’s helpful, that’ll do, I’ll be able to catch him single-handedly with that-“

“Be quiet and start looking for this number plate. MH 1684. Less chatter, more action, Bond.”

“I love it when you talk dirty to me, sweetheart.”

 

* * *

 

It becomes a routine (something Bond is uncomfortable with, has always been; but which his feet follow anyway, leading him to the workspace without his express permission).

“You’re sitting on my algorithms.”

“I’d like to sit on your algorithms – “ which earns him a roll of Q’s eyes, a gesture Bond finds (unbearably) young.

“I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.”

“I could show you.”

“Or you could get off the designs for the submarine bomb I’m building.”

 

* * *

 

He has a type.

James Bond has a type: hold up, universe.

Slender (fine-boned) pale skinned (perfect-celled) dark hair (tousled, gorgeous) whip-smart (the blow-up-the-world kind) psychoanalysing him like it’s a hobby, darting away just as Bond thinks he’s grasped them.

 

* * *

 

It’s the anniversary of Vesper’s death, and Bond spends it on the edge of the Thames, on a rooftop of the tallest building in London, and then when the evening falls – without him knowing, back to MI6.

He watches Q for a bit, sitting on the edge of a countertop (Q barely glancing up, accepting his presence like he’s part of the gadgetry around him (dangerous, hard but _decipherable_ , something Q can figure out, something he _knows_ )) before he says:

“Vesper always wanted to go to Bali,” and she had, dream destination of hers, “she never got to, because of me.”

And that’s all he’ll say on the subject: case closed for another year, pain buried deep under layers of rubble and wreck – but Q comes over, close but not touching, and he says, “Bond,” like he doesn’t know what _else_ to – and he’s very close, but not enough, and -

when Bond leans forward to kiss him he turns his head, so Bond’s lips graze his cheek, ear.

“I’m not taking advantage of you, not now,” he tells Bond.

“You already have,” Bond murmurs, into the shell of his ear, and he can _see_ Q shiver, see the sharp intake of breath, but Q ducks away, back to work.

 

* * *

 

The thing is.

Bond has wanted this before. Hundreds of times.

He’s only needed this once before. And look what had happened: a shower running (blood-soaped).

 

* * *

 

(“Happy birthday.”

“That’s classified information.”

“I hacked into your file.”

“Of course.” The gadget feels small-sleek-dangerous in Bond’s hand; he turns it over in his fingers, thumb stroking the nib.

“Careful. Click that, and it’ll explode.”)

 

* * *

 

If Bond was the kind of person who was in the habit of dreaming, they’d (maybe) be about

His fingers, in Q’s disastrous hair, rendering it perfectly, utterly, completely unfixable –

Q whimpering under him, lost and gone and completely unable to utter a single smart remark because Bond’s completely robbed him of the ability –

and, most terrifyingly-

to feed Q breakfast (and lunch, and dinner) and make sure that he eats properly, fills out a bit, because he’s always too-thin and too-breakable (his clavicle too easily seen) and Bond would like to give him his blood, survivor’s blood, strong and healthy and always healing

(but wouldn’t it make Q a little more ruthless, a little bit cruel, all the things Bond would kill for Q to escape)

 

* * *

 

However. This is Bali,

“Come in. Bond, come in.” Q sounds terrified, underneath the required agent-calm exterior expected of him. And Bond is sorry, he truly is, but his pelvic girdle is fractured and his tibia broken, his larynx bruised (he’s pretty sure) and his kidney hurting.

Not to mention the blood everywhere.

He passes out, twenty metres from (what passes as) a hospital, in this remote, isolated part of Bali,

 

* * *

 

beautiful Bali:

(Vesper says: “You’re an idiot, James.”

“You’re a hallucination, Vesper.”

“Insignificant.” Vesper sounds disdainful. “Wake the fuck up, you’ve slept enough already. And go home.”

Bond says (because he’s allowed to, this is his head and he’s drugged up and fucked up and not thinking clearly): “I don’t think I can. I kill home, remember? I don’t want to kill home, again.”

Vesper says, a little sad (red dress trailing on the sand of the beach she’s on, Bali, beautiful Bali): “I think that’s home’s choice, James,” and Bond wakes up, sharp and painful.

 

* * *

 

“Bond,” Q says, and he’s running, running to Bond but he stops, probably fearful about the bandages and the cast and the, of course, excruciating pain.

Unless Bond’s extremely mistaken, Q’s in Indonesia. Unless the drugs are working overtime (and they probably are, it’s all a hazy mess of blurred vision and dreamy not-aches),

“Did you fly here?”

Q ignores this. “We’re going to get you to a proper hospital,” which earns him dirty looks from a couple of nurses passing by.

“You have no idea how to wear a suit,” Bond says, sleepy.

“Um. Okay,” Q says, “we’ll make that our top priority, we’re very, very on that right now, 007.”

 

* * *

 

Bond’s lying on a hospital bed, several metres in the sky, but he can’t help noticing Q tensing up as they clear takeoff – running a hand through his hair, jiggling a leg altogether too fast.

“Hey,” Bond says, and he’ll swear later that it was the drugs, but he reaches out and touches Q’s hand. Lays a palm on it, steady.

Q looks down. “My mother died in a plane crash,” he says, out of nowhere, and Bond wants to press a kiss onto the whorls of his fingers. He doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

“You’re still healing.”

“Filthy minx,” Bond swears, because Q grins and ducks, escapes the space between Bond and the wall of his workspace.

“I wouldn’t want you to fracture another bone,” Q says.

 

* * *

 

Back from Cairo (with its star-studded sky, watching endless pain) and it’s Valentine’s Day and Bond realises it’s been four months since he’s been with someone (eternity, in his time).

He goes to a bar; and after the third drink, a woman sidles up to Bond: she’s got shiny chocolate hair and smooth chocolate skin and she’ll do, she’s willing and she _wants_ this –

Bond says: “Sorry, sweetheart, I’ve got someplace to be,” and his feet lead him out of the smoke-clouded place, and this is unbelievable- the kid, the _kid_ is _cockblocking_ him now.

 

* * *

 

He decides not to climb in through the window.

“Hello,” Q says, letting him in in sweatpants and a soft-looking plaid shirt. “How do you know where I live?”

“I stole your file,” Bond tells him, and Q smirks and says, “Touché,” before Bond’s got him pressed against his door, wrists in Bond’s grip.

“Why do you keep running,” Bond asks, “stop _running_ ,” and it’s probably the third martini, but he needs to know.

“I don’t want to be just another,” and Q’s inches from him, heartrate skittering in Bond’s grip, breathing fast but Bond can feel him, hot and hard against Bond, “notch in your bedpost, Bond. And we work together, you know, it would be compromised if one of us cared too much, or-“

“You know, for MI6’s pet genius,” Bond says, and he carefully, but decidedly, presses a kiss onto Q’s jawline, and Q makes a sound which is either “Bond,” or “ _Oh_ ,” but is definitely not “No,” “you’re an idiot.”

He travels down, laving kisses to Q’s neck, throat; holding Q his prisoner (but Q isn’t even remotely struggling). “Forget the agency for a minute, Q.”

“I am _not_ one of your countless one night stands,” Q informs him, smart-mouthed even as he arches his neck, baring it open for Bond to mouth hungrily at, a feast where he’s been hungry for so long.

“You aren’t, baby,” Bond assures him, pushing a hand under Q’s old worn shirt, skating a thumb around a nipple. “You aren’t, I promise.”

“Liar,” Q accuses, but he’s pushing himself wantonly against Bond, filthy slut that he is, and Bond takes this as permission, releases Q’s hands, which come up immediately to grasp at Bond’s shoulders, to pull Q’s waistband down, to slide a hand into the delicious heat of Q, which burns, scorches his fingers.

Bond doesn’t do this often, if you looked at his statistics (70:30), but it’s familiar, it’s the same thing, and it earns him a gasp from Q, his hands moving restlessly over Bond’s arms, back, and Bond strokes him, steady, but it’s not enough, and Bond’s legs decide what to do a moment before he does, and his knees sink to Q’s soft Persian carpeting. One hand’s around the base of Q’s cock as he wraps his lips, tentative but firm, around its head, and Q lets out an absolutely obscene moan, one of a world-class whore, and this- _this_ Bond’s never done before (this is all Q’s) but he sure as hell is going to do this right, and he sucks Q off, soft and curious as Q’s fingers struggle to find purchase in Bond’s hair. He’s huge and alive in Bond’s mouth and Bond loves the taste of him.

“Bond- _James_ ,” Q manages, “I’m going to- _oh_.”

“It’s all right, I’ve got you, darling,” Bond murmurs, leaving off to press kisses onto Q’s underside, run his tongue over Q’s slit, “it’s all right, you’re so beautiful, give it up, won’t you? Give it up for me,” and Q _does_ , spilling hot and white in irregular spurts, and Bond is obviously not the classy broad he thought he was because he takes it all, takes all Q has to give him.

Q’s knees have obviously given up as well, because he sinks to the ground, to Bond’s level, and Bond is- unbearably hard, straining in his pants and he’s going to ruin this Tom Ford but that can wait, and he reaches over to kiss Q, who kisses back, drugged and lazy, for the first time.

 

* * *

 

“How did you kno-“

“Your file.”

“My favourite food is in there? Aren’t those people thorough.”

It tastes like pepper, like the fresh sour tang of tomato when Bond bites into a piece. It tastes like the home Bond always knew he couldn’t have.

 

* * *

 

This is probably a bad idea, Bond knows. He kills home.

But Q’s apparently made up his mind that home’s fine with it, because this- this is Monte Carlo:

“I’ve lost him.”

“Have you? Heads up.” Q, in Bond’s ear, sounds amused.

There’s a deafening explosion in the water, and the dock blows up easily, taking the villain running to Montague with documents of national importance with it. “I, however, haven’t.”

 

* * *

 

The world will know the story of:

James Bond, 007, special agent extraordinaire, Britain’s secret intelligence at its finest. It will listen eagerly to the tales of exploding buildings, the fast vehicles, the suits, the near-death escapes and the women Bond loves.

It won’t hear about scrambled eggs in the morning, or the exploding pen tucked away in Bond’s drawer. It won’t hear about the painting of a ship being tugged away to a dockyard, (a Christmas present) hanging on the wall of M16’s Quartermaster’s apartment.

The world will never hear the story of Q.

But that’s alright.

Q is- Q is not for everyone.

Q is-

Q is Bond’s.

 

* * *


End file.
